


Yard Work Just Ain't What It Used To Be

by mrs_d



Series: Songs for the Morning [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (quite possibly the fluffiest fluff I've ever fluffed), Domestic Fluff, M/M, Patriotic undergarments, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 13:56:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6197662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_d/pseuds/mrs_d
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve didn’t get many mornings like this, between leading the Avengers and his and Sam’s continued search for Bucky. Add to that the nightmares he still had at least once a month and his wonderfully re-activated sex life, and Steve found he spent very little time just lounging in bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yard Work Just Ain't What It Used To Be

**Author's Note:**

> Set some months after [Breakfast in Bed](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5648950).
> 
> Believe it or not, this is the silly little story that [Beyond Late](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5309981) was supposed to be.

Steve woke gradually, as the small noises and sensations around him slowly added up to the conclusion that he was comfortable and warm in Sam’s bedroom, in Sam’s bed. He stretched, letting the cotton sheet lift and resettle against his mostly bare skin, and breathed in deeply. The window was open, letting in snatches of birdsong and a breeze that smelled distinctly like fall. 

Funny, Steve thought vaguely, that some things hadn’t changed in all these years. That he could breathe in the smell of dying leaves — without coughing, that had changed — and be transported to 1930, to Mrs. O’Shea’s tiny front yard. He could still remember earning a handful of coins by weeding her flowerbeds and raking her leaves: the sun cooked the back of his neck, his eyes ran from the sweat and pollen, and his spine ached, but at the end of the day, he was proud that he had something to show for his work — other than callouses.

His mother used to scold him for hurting himself, used to insist that no money was worth that, but Steve only did it when he’d recovered from an illness, when they were short on rent because of the cost of his medicine. He felt he had to, and she knew he liked to feel useful, so she’d just shake her head and run him a hot bath, not even bothering to tell him not to do it again. They both knew he wouldn’t listen, anyway.

Somewhere outside the window, a lawn mower started up suddenly, jarring Steve from his sleepy thoughts, which had become hazy and half-formed. He didn’t get many mornings like this, between leading the Avengers and his and Sam’s continued search for Bucky. Add to that the nightmares he still had at least once a month and his wonderfully re-activated sex life, and Steve found he spent very little time just lounging in bed.

In Sam’s bed, to be specific, not that he really slept anywhere else anymore. He wondered if they’d been together long enough to call it _their bed_ and _their bedroom_. It still felt new enough to him some days — he’d never properly been half of a _they_ before — and, truthfully, he was okay with not rushing anything for the sake of nomenclature. Plus, reminding himself that this was Sam’s house, Sam’s bed, Sam’s Captain America boxer briefs that he’d put on last night for a joke — it helped Steve remember to count his blessings, to be grateful to Sam for letting him into his life, to not take anything (Sam) for granted.

Speaking of, Steve thought, sitting up with a yawn. Sam’s side of the bed was vacant, and the bedroom door was closed, which was odd; they usually slept with it open. Steve listened, but he didn’t hear any sounds that indicated that Sam was in the house. Puzzled, and, if he were honest, a little worried, Steve got to his feet and headed out to the kitchen, glancing into Sam’s office and the bathroom on his way by.

“Sam?” he called softly, though he was aware that it was pointless. The house wasn’t that big; if Sam were there, he would have heard Steve get up, would have come to meet him. Obviously, he was gone.

The kitchen proved that he’d been there recently, though: a dirty plate was on the counter beside a mostly full pot of coffee, still warm to the touch. Steve checked his phone, which he’d left on the table last night, but there were no messages, and no notes stuck to the fridge or anywhere else. He shrugged off the vague feeling of concern and told himself that Sam was probably fine; he couldn’t have gone far. Steve decided he’d have a cup of coffee and text him, though, just to be sure.

He’d only swallowed one mouthful when he happened to glance out the kitchen window. What he saw in the backyard had him dropping his phone and running out the door with his shield, damp grass and leaves clumping between his bare toes as he skidded to a halt in the middle of the yard.

Sam, still adjusting the pack on his back, spun around in alarm. “What the hell?” he exclaimed.

Steve took in his appearance — no goggles, no armor, and something like a stiff plastic hose in his hand — and realized his mistake. He also realized that he was standing outside, wearing nothing but Sam’s ridiculous Captain America underwear and holding his shield, ready for a battle that wasn’t coming.

“Uh. Those aren’t your wings,” he said stupidly.

“No,” Sam said slowly. “Are you okay?”

He let go of the hose in his hand and reached up to pull the straps off his shoulders. As he lowered the device, Steve peered at it closely. It was definitely a machine of some kind, all hard plastic and metal, but it wasn’t Sam’s jet pack.

“Steve?” said Sam. “What’s wrong?”

Steve jerked his gaze up. “Nothing,” he said quickly. “I’m sorry. Nothing’s wrong with me.”

“You can say that again,” said a woman’s voice off to Steve’s left.

“Mm hmm,” another woman agreed.

Steve didn’t need to look — Sam’s face said it all — but he did anyway, turning first to the old woman staring over Sam’s fence on the left side of the yard, and then to the old woman staring over Sam’s fence on the right side.

“Good morning, Mrs. Matthews, Ms. LaCroix,” he said politely, his cheeks burning.

“Well, a good morning to you, too, Captain,” Mrs. Matthews drawled, leaning on a fencepost. “That’s a cute little uniform you got there, I like it.”

“Not sure it’s regulation, though,” Ms. LaCroix put in, and Steve wished he were small again, so he could hide behind his shield.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam interjected, rescuing Steve by ushering him backwards towards the door. “Show’s over.”

“Ladies,” Steve choked out, because being polite was a reflex he just couldn’t help sometimes.

“You ever offer to blow my leaves again, Sam Wilson, I’ll pay you to wear that outfit,” Ms. LaCroix called after them.

“I think he might be a little busy blowing something else, Deirdre,” Steve heard Mrs. Matthews reply, and both women started to cackle.

Sam pushed Steve inside, then whirled around. “Either of you call the tabloids, I’ll sic the Hulk on you,” he threatened, but Steve could tell he wasn’t really angry. “Dirty old women,” Sam added, shaking his head as he closed the door.

“Sam,” Steve began. “I am so—”

“Don’t even bother,” Sam interrupted. He was quaking with subdued laughter as he took Steve’s shield out of his hands. “That’ll teach me for not leaving you a note.”

“I just— I thought there was a situation.”

“In the backyard?” Sam asked skeptically.

“Well, you never know,” Steve protested. He lifted his hands to touch the slightly sweaty spots of Sam’s t-shirt where the straps had rested moments before. “I looked out and saw you wearing... What was that thing anyway?”

“A leaf blower. You’ve never seen one before?” When Steve shook his head, Sam added, “Think of it like a souped-up rake.”

“Oh,” Steve said, nodding though he couldn’t really see the point of inventing such a thing. “From behind, it looked like—”

“My wings? Yeah, I guess I could see that.” Sam shook his head again, chuckling once more. “Never a dull moment with you around, is there?”

“Sorry?” Steve offered with a smirk. “I don’t do it on purpose.”

Sam stepped a little closer and put his hands over Steve’s, running them up his arms until he was holding Steve by the hips, making Steve very aware of his near-nakedness. There was a smile playing at the corner of Sam’s mouth as his gaze swept down Steve’s body and came back to find his eyes again.  

“I know,” he said. His voice was surprisingly serious. “I don’t mind.”

“So, you’re not in danger?” Steve asked, trying to be playful, but Sam’s grip on him tightened.

“I’m always in danger, baby, same as you,” Sam replied, his voice husky. “It means a lot that you came running, though.”

“Always,” Steve replied without thinking.

Sam lunged in then, kissing him fiercely and skimming his hands, fever-hot and calloused from hard work, over Steve’s bare back, down to squeeze his ass and back up, like Sam wanted to touch him everywhere at once. Steve felt the stretchy material of his ludicrous underwear tightening around his cock as Sam’s tongue worked its way around his mouth.

Steve was breathless and aching with want by the time Sam pulled back long minutes later.

“But next time put some clothes on, okay?” he breathed, nipping at Steve’s earlobe. “You’re lucky you didn’t give our poor neighbors a stroke.”

Steve huffed out a little laugh and tilted his head back, so Sam could suck at the base his neck, leaving marks that would fade far too quickly. It was only when Sam came up for more kisses that Steve realized what Sam had said.

“Our,” he repeated.

Sam stopped, relaxing his hold. “Huh?”

“You said our. _Our_ neighbors.”

Sam let go completely and shifted back, putting a little space between them. “Well, yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”

Steve stared at him and thought about all the responses he could give, all the things he could say about how generous Sam was, about how he wanted to share everything, be half of a _they_ , an _us_. He wanted to tell Sam that whatever he had was his, too, and Sam knew that, right?

But he wasn’t very good at talking, so he settled for saying it the way he knew Sam would hear it best. He kissed Sam’s mouth once, more tenderly than before, and cupped Sam’s jaw as he pulled back.

“I love you, Sam Wilson,” he murmured, and from the grin Sam gave him in return, Steve knew he’d heard every single word.


End file.
